


from some home a Jade flute sends dark notes drifting

by TrashyInferno



Series: Incarnations-verse [2]
Category: RWBY
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:40:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27900145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrashyInferno/pseuds/TrashyInferno
Summary: Reincarnation is a tricky thing. Sometimes, you're reborn into a warrior. Sometimes, you're reborn into someone who's never even looked at a staff, much less wielded one.And sometimes, you're reborn into someone whose soul is as broken as your own.Maybe, just maybe, there's an opportunity for healing if you're willing to take it.
Series: Incarnations-verse [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2042128
Kudos: 15





	from some home a Jade flute sends dark notes drifting

**Author's Note:**

> So... my sister asked me about the three incarnations of Oz that I featured in Incarnations, so I told her how I'd imagined them when I was writing the fic.
> 
> Then she asked for more.
> 
> There are currently 9 - read that. 9! - fics in various states of doneness sitting on my hard drive. This is just one of them.
> 
> Anyway, this one's for you, sis.

He hates this world. He hates the Grimm and their attacks. He hates… He _seethes_.

So, he shuts himself away from it. He builds his cabin far from the town and refuses to leave. He plants just enough crops to get him through the year. He hunts sparingly in the woods when he grows tired of corn and potatoes. He reads and writes and ignores the knocking at his door.

Eventually, they stop coming.

Osric Jade has built himself a shelter from the storm. He doesn’t need anything or _anyone_ else.

He doesn’t need more to lose.

________

_Don’t you talk to anyone?_

“No,” he responds gruffly, “I don’t, so stop talking to me.”

The girl in his head – _Oswin Laurel, she’d introduced herself_ – chuckles. _I don’t think you get that choice, Osric._

“Oh?” He glares at the porcelain plate that had the audacity to shatter on the floor only a few moments ago. “And why’s that, exactly?” He shuffles over to where he’d left the broom and begins cleaning.

_You’ve got the soul of a reincarnated warrior in your head. We’re bonded._

He huffs. He’s heard the girl’s spiel before. She’d explained it fairly quickly in words that mostly flew over his head. All he really got out of it was that he’s stuck with a girl and Brothers knew how many other people in his mind.

He hates it.

 _You hate a lot of things_ , the girl observes. _Isn’t that tiring?_

“Get out of my head.”

_Can’t do that, but I’ll leave you be._

He grunts and shoves the plate’s broken pieces out the door. They clink as they fall to the ground.

________

He opens the oven and smiles as the scent of a well-baked shepherd’s pie wafts into his nose.

 _Shepherd’s pie again?_ He can hear the revulsion in the girl’s voice plain as day. _Don’t you eat anything else?_

He looks at the pie and raises an eyebrow. It’s true. They’ve been eating shepherd’s pie for the past couple of weeks. He frowns. But he _likes_ shepherd’s pie. And, he only has mutton on hand.

What else do you do with mutton other than make a shepherd’s pie?

_Make stew?_

Osric makes a face. No. No stews.

The voice doesn’t speak again.

That doesn’t stop Osric from feeling very judged with every bite of pie.

________

Osric tells himself that he’s only doing this because he’s running low on meat. He can’t just go and kill another of his sheep; he needs the wool to make new clothes for the coming winter.

_That’s a lie._

He shoulders his rifle and stomps into the forest.

_Might want to keep the stomping to a minimum, old man. You’re scaring away everything edible in a two-hundred-foot radius._

He raises an eyebrow. _What would a little girl know about hunting?_

Oswin huffs. He can imagine her crossing her arms over her chest and pouting. _I was eighteen when I died,_ she says. _I led a tribe for six of those years. I_ hunted _plenty._

He stops in surprise. She sounds younger than she is – was – whatever. Leading a tribe at twelve… just who _is_ Oswin?

_I was damn good at it, too._

He continues on his trek, but he makes his footsteps much quieter. As much as he hates to admit it, she’s right. _If you had a tribe,_ he asks out of genuine curiosity, _why didn’t you go into one of them?_

It would have made his life _so_ much easier.

The wave of grief comes so suddenly that his legs collapse beneath him. Tears well in his eyes, though he has no reason to be crying right now, and his gun falls to the ground. It’s like someone has ripped his heart out of his chest and torn it in two.

It takes him a few moments to gather his racing thoughts – _why the hell is she feeling like this?_ – before he’s able to ask, _Oswin? Are you there?_

The girl doesn’t answer. Her grief pulses once, and then it fades. He can’t feel her presence in his mind anymore. She’s locked herself away in the dark corners of his mind. He reaches out with a gentleness he hasn’t used in a very long time, but his apology echoes in the empty space Oswin previously occupied.

Alone in the woods, Osric is left wondering what exactly he did wrong.

________

She doesn’t return for three days.

Osric continues about his daily life like always: wake-up, read a book, tinker with the cane, clean a bit, make and eat dinner. Outside the addition of the cane, it’s as if Oswin had never shown up in his head in the first place.

He doesn’t miss the teasing voice in his head at all.

He makes a shepherd’s pie on the third evening, just because.

________

_You’re making that thing more complicated than I remember it._

Osric almost drops the _very delicate_ piece of machinery in his tweezers at the sudden comment. He snarls. _Can you not_ do _that?_

_I missed you too._

_Hmph_. He doesn’t bother to hide the small grin pulling at the edges of his mouth. It’s not like she’s going to see it. He carefully slots the small piece into place at the cane’s hilt.

A sharp jab of curiosity pokes at his consciousness. _So, what’s that gonna do?_ she asks.

_Oh, so you can weaponize emotions now?_

He can imagine the smirk on her face. _Apparently._ The curiosity pokes at him again. _Is it working?_

He grunts and presses down on the latch he’d installed on the cane’s handle. There’s a slight ticking noise as the mechanism works its magic, and then the long portion of the cane disappears into the handle’s metal base.

 _The cane? Yes,_ he answers. It’s not perfect. The response time is much slower than he would like, and it’s far too loud. A Grimm will be able to hear it and react before its user can get in a good thwack at it. _Your poking? No._ It’s going to take some time before he can fix it, probably even a reincarnation or two as he waits for this world’s technology to catch up to his ideas.

He sighs. This isn’t the first time he’s lamented the loss of _his_ world. Remnant has its perks, but it’s just that: a remnant of an age long gone. The old magic that would have made this so much easier is no more, and humans have gotten no further in technological development than _guns._ And poorly made ones at that.

Something inside of him aches. It’s not the usual ache in his old bones that proclaims the arrival of the rain, but an older, much more ancient, ache. It goes beyond the body and reaches down into his – _their_ – soul.

He places the cane on the table sadly. He’s _tired_ , but he’s not even sure if the exhaustion is his own, or if it’s _his_.

________

**_She just barely dodges the sword aiming for her gut by diving to her left. It’ll take him just a few extra seconds to turn because there will be a twinge in his ankle when he pivots on it. He’ll recover quickly – it’s a weakness he’s fine tuned over the years – but it’s still weakness._ **

**_Oswin exits the roll smoothly and brings her cane up to knock his head backward. He pulls back as if he expects the blow and parries with his sword. She makes a wide arc with the cane and catches his next swing with her own. The screech of metal on metal rends the air as they press against each other._ **

**_Her frown deepens. They’ve trained together for_ years. _They know each other too well for this._**

**_What is he trying to prove?_ **

**Perhaps you should try something new, _Ozel advises._ You could always change your style, just a bit. Leaning on me isn’t weakness.**

**_They separate. She flips backward and feels the rough ground scrape against her feet. Her frown deepens. She’s going to feel that for the rest of the fight, dammit._ ** ****

**I thought we’d come to the conclusion that your methods don’t work for me, _she retorts bitterly. Rather than waiting, she charges back into the fight. Brio’s cocky grin falls into a grimace as she makes a series of blows against his person._ I’m not bulky like you. I can’t risk getting hit.**

**_She slams the cane into the ground and uses the resulting force to launch herself over the head of her opponent. She lands smoothly behind him, and before he can react, she lands a solid thwack on his right side –_ where that Grimm got him two years go _. It’s a low blow, but you do what you can to survive. Her father taught her that._**

**_She may have taken the tribe in a different direction, but those old lessons ring in her head even now._ **

Osric wakes to harsh sobbing echoing in his head. Wave upon wave of sorrow, pain, and _hatred_ roll through his body. He’s itching to fight someone, break something, do _anything to forget_ _this._ Green lightning crackles harshly in his fist. He thrusts his hand forward and allows the lightning to shoot from his palm. It arcs across the room and strikes the wall.

A scorch mark, black and angry, smolders.

________

It seems that once the magic awakens, it refuses to leave.

Osric groans as green fire reduces the fifth book this morning to cinders in his hands. He’s going to have to go into town to replace his entire _library_ soon.

 _At least,_ he thinks wryly, _I wasn’t working on the cane._ Weeks of work. Ruined. He shudders at the thought.

 _How’d you control it?_ he asks Oswin.

_I… didn’t._

His eyebrow rises incredulously. _You? The great and powerful Oswin?_ He smirks. _I didn’t think that was possible._

Her temper flares hot in the back of his mind. _Well, I’m_ sorry _I never actually managed to unlock it!_ The heat dissipates almost as quickly as it had come. _I never really got that far,_ she admits softly.

The conversation lulls to a comfortable silence as he sweeps the ashes into a neat little pile on the floor. He’s started keeping the broom near him at all times. This whole reincarnation thing has resulted in more messes than he’d care to admit.

_Hey, Osric?_

He pauses. _Yeah, kiddo?_

 _I wanted to apologize for a couple of nights ago._ He’s surprised to hear the shame etched deeply in her voice. _I’m losing control of the merge._

He smiles. _It’s not your fault, Os. We knew this might happen._

_Well, yeah, but that memory was the night that I –_

They’re pulled out of their conversation as something crashes against the front door. They listen intently for any sort of Grimm, but there isn’t any telltale growling or screaming so what exactly –

“Hello? Hello? Is someone there?” a young female voice cries from the other side. “Please, my sister is hurt, and we need help!”

 _We’ll talk about this later,_ Osric assures the voice in his head. On the outside, he shouts, “Go away! I can’t help you.”

_Osric! At least hear her out._

He grimaces. _No. We don’t know if she’s actually telling the truth._ He bares his teeth and reaches for the cane, which hangs from his waist by a cord. A simple press of the handle extends the metal to its full length. The entire thing is just a _bit_ too tall for his figure, but he’d rather have longer reach than keeping up appearances.

“Please! I’ll do anything, just – we need _help_!”

 _Oh, come on, old man. You can shoot_ lightning _from your_ hands. _You can protect yourself just fine._

“Please!”

_Just open the door._

He sighs and throws the door open. A girl no more than sixteen stands in the doorway, her face bloody and bruised.

He sets his mouth in a thin line. It certainly looks real enough.

“I thought you were with your sister?” he says, peering out into the night. “Where is she?”

The girl shakes her head. “My other sisters are tending to her not too far from here,” she explains. “I’m supposed to go back and get them once I’ve found shelter.” She looks down at him with pleading eyes. “Please, sir, can we stay here?”

He worries at his bottom lip with his teeth. _Os, what should I do?_

 _It’s your decision, old man,_ the girl says wryly, _I can’t make it for you._

He frowns, considers, and sighs. He looks the girl straight in the eye and says, “Fine, but you’d better not do anything stupid.”

A funny feeling rolls in his gut. It isn’t quite pride or shame. Nor is it anger. It’s…

It’s _acceptance_.

Somehow, Osric feels as if he’s made a choice that will change the course of this lifetime.


End file.
